


Long-Forgotten Stories

by old-kirjavi (Kirjavi)



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: AU when Wirt blows out the lamp (and kills the Beast), Gen, Infinite Eyerolls if you squint, Pretty much everyone shows up or is mentioned, Three Years Later, completed work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/old-kirjavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after their first foray into the Unknown, Wirt and Greg are called back to the woods by an old friend. They learn that without the Beast's guidance, the Forest is growing out of control and they must find a way to stop it. With the help of a few old friends, they make their way through the woods and rediscover the Unknown once more.</p><p>In an AU when Wirt blows out the lantern and kills the Beast.<br/>Cross-posted to FanFiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Over the Garden Wall belongs to the esteemed Patrick McHale and I own nothing (and if I did, Infinite Eyerolls would be canon as heck).
> 
> Enjoy!

Prologue

“Greg!” Wirt nudged his little brother gently. “Greg, wake up!”  
  
The boy blinked and shook his head, immediately straightening up from where he sat leaning against his brother’s shoulder. “I wasn’t sleeping, Wirt! But Jason Funderburker was!” He hoisted the frog in the air like a trophy. The frog, by now used to such manhandlings, merely blinked his big frog eyes and croaked loudly.  
  
Wirt rolled his eyes (he suspected it wouldn’t be for the last time tonight) and stood up, pulling Greg up with him. He squinted through the darkness and checked the clock on the wall. The time was 11:51. Perfect for a Halloween trip to the Eternal Garden Cemetery.  
  
It had been three years since their first foray into the Unknown, and dressing up in their old costumes and taking a midnight stroll to the cemetery had become something of a Halloween tradition for the two brothers. Although, of course, nothing had ever happened, there was a certain nostalgia in recounting their adventures to each other, year after year.  
  
Wirt donned his cloak and hat with a vague feeling of regret. At eighteen years of age, he was leaving for college soon and he felt as if he owed the Unknown one last visit.  
  
The two brothers walked in silence down the road, one with a cone on his head and the other skillfully balancing an old teapot. The trick-or-treaters had gone home, and they were the only ones out on the streets. The silence of the half-full autumn moon lay upon the world, broken only by the soft scuffing of their feet, the hopping of the frog beside them, and the distant, soothing calls of the crickets.  
  
They walked through the gates of the Eternal Garden Cemetery and wound their way through the gravestones. Greg patted Quincy Endicott’s stone as he walked by. “Hiya, Uncle,” he whispered softly. The frog gave a croak of greeting and they continued on their way.  
  
When they came to the garden wall, they stayed there for a bit, filling their minds with the sight of its mossy, magnificently decaying stones. Wirt was the first to begin to climb, his long legs making short work of the sturdy tree beside the wall. He reached down to give Greg a hand as the nine-year-old struggled to pull both himself and the frog up to the top.  
  
With a soft thud, Wirt landed on the grassy slope of the hill and motioned for Greg to follow him. Deftly, he caught his younger brother in his arms and deposited him on the ground.  
  
Wirt cautiously looked along the train track, remembering the consequences of being careless. Deeming it safe to cross, they set off down the hill (both walking, despite Greg’s attempts to roll down the hill “for old time’s sake”). When they reached the creek, they both sat down and watched it flow past the cemetery in silence.  
  
Finally, Wirt looked over at Greg and caught his eye. “You ready?” he asked.  
  
Greg smiled and nodded, then turned to the frog to pass on the message. “You ready, Jason Funderburker?” The frog blinked his eyes, then nodded his head in an unmistakable yes.  
  
“Alright, then.” Wirt picked his way over the small stones lining the bank of the creek until he was standing knee-deep in the frigid water. The others followed him, Greg holding the frog above the water so that there was no accidental drownings (not again, at least).  
  
“On three,” Wirt whispered. “One, two, three!” Simultaneously, they plunged under the rushing water.  
  
None of them actually expected anything to happen. Wirt had given up hope of seeing that mysterious place again (many poems had stemmed from his regret of leaving it) and even the ever-optimistic Greg had low hopes of actually piercing the veil. The frog– well, the frog had decided long ago that the life of a ferry-singer was not for him, and that he much preferred the company of a young human boy.  
  
But something about this night was different.  
  
Maybe it was the way the moon hung in a perfect semicircle in the velvet sky, or the way the soft calls of the night birds hovered, liquid, in the air. Or maybe it was nothing at all. Just sheer and utter luck.  
  
But as they gave themselves up to the stream again, something shifted around them and they were thrust, spinning, into darkness. A flurry of bubbles left Wirt’s mouth as he involuntarily gasped. He reflectively clutched Greg closer to him as the tug of the Unknown, gone for so many years, returned with a vengeance.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Darkness. Thick, murky shadows that couldn't be pierced by the brightest of lights. They hung for an endless moment, suspended in darkness.

Then suddenly, the shadows warped and twisted around them, breaking apart and letting a dim light through to the brothers. With a jolt, they fell to the ground, landing in a rustling pile of leaves.

The frog was the first to recover, poking his head out of the leaves and hopping out from under Greg's arm. He croaked loudly, a different, human note in his voice.

Wirt stood up and reaffixed his hat to his head with shaking hands. "Oh my god," he whispered as he took in his surroundings. "Oh my god, Greg," he said again, louder this time. "Did we– I think we made it!"

He hauled Greg up to his feet and the little boy looked around. "Looks like we finally did it, brother o' mine," he declared happily as he took in the mist-wreathed trees. "What now?"

"Now?" Wirt looked around again. Now that they were actually here, he had no idea what to do. We– we walk, I guess."

They set off down the familiar path side by side. The frog hopped along at their side, happy to be back in the forest once again. The well-worn path raised light clouds of dust under their feet as the milk-light of the half moon shone down through the trees. The sounds, the sights, and even the scents of the eternal autumn wood was familiar, right down to the rustle of the vermillion leaves and the subtle, faintly sweet smell of the cool fall air. It was as if nothing had changed. Wirt silently marveled at how familiar it was, even after all this time.

Greg was a little less enchanted. The boy's senses may have been fooled by the sheer amount of sensory splendour to notice any changes, but his mind (and something deeper, perhaps) saw otherwise. There was something missing from the Unknown. There was a lost sense of mystery, of dark secrets and memories gone from the air; there was a faint yet distinct change in their surroundings. About to voice his concerns, Greg looked up at Wirt, but seeing his brother so entranced by his return to the Unknown, he set aside his concerns for later.

They had been walking for some time now; the moon had set and pre-dawn chill had embittered the air. Wirt looked up, noting the lightening sky, and frowned. "Is it just me, or shouldn't we have run into someone by now?"

Greg frowned as well and appeared to actually be considering Wirt's question, until: "Do you think Jason Funderburker needs a new name?"

"Greg." Wirt groaned as his little brother began rattling off another list of names.

It was thus, the irritated older brother and the name-blabbering little brother, that the boys truly re-entered the Unknown, just like that first time so many years ago.

Shortly after Greg had finally ran out of names, they came upon a clearing, and in that clearing, a house. It looked like the same building the Woodsman had repurposed for grinding the Edelwood trees, but brighter, somehow. More friendly. The brothers hastened their pace, eager to rejoin society.

Before they reached the front door, a dog loped around the side of the house and began barking furiously. It was a big dog, nearly as tall as Greg, and had a vaguely familiar white- and brown-spotted coat.

"Hey!" Greg hugged the dog. "The Beast-dog!" The dog licked the side of Greg's face, apparently remembering him from their first incident in the Unknown. Greg laughed and patted the dog's head while Jason Funderburker the frog discreetly slipped out of the way of the dog's slobbering tongue.

"I don't remember the Woodsman having a dog," Wirt muttered. The door of the house opened, effectively shaking him out of his thoughts.

A woman appeared at the doorway, drying her hands on her apron and scanning the yard for the dog. Spotting it, she frowned and yelled, "Rusty! Quit annoying those young men and get your tail over here!" The dog immediately left off slobbering over Greg's face and trotted over to where the woman stood, whining beseechingly. The fiery-haired woman scratched the dog's head and looked up, seeing the boys still loitering outside. "Well? What are you waiting for? Come in, come in!" She bustled inside and, after a moment's hesitation, the brothers followed her in.

Redheads. Redheads everywhere. That was Wirt's first thought as he entered the house. Everywhere he looked, there was a ginger-haired kid talking, eating, or in some cases, sleeping. They followed the woman into the kitchen, doing their best not to disturb anyone. Normally, they would've balked at such open hospitality from strangers, but their previous stay in the Unknown had taught them not to take kindness given freely lightly. The woman appeared to be the matriarch of the household and for some reason seemed vaguely familiar. After catching a glimpse of blue feathers on the floor, Wirt finally pieced two and two together.

"E-excuse me?" he ventured shyly. Inexplicably, she seemed to be making them breakfast. "Ma'am? Do you know a girl named Beatrice?"

"Oh, love, just call me Mrs. O'Sialia." She pronounced it Oh' SHAY-lee-yah, with a faint Irish brogue. She set two plates with eggs and toast in front of them, still steaming gently. Greg's eyes widened and he blurted out a quick "thank you" before digging in. Wirt was a little more cautious, preferring to have his questions answered before starting to eat. "Are you related to Beatrice?" he asked again. "You seem familiar."

Mrs. O'Sialia smiled cheerily as she dried dishes. "Of course. I'm her mother. Red hair does run in the family, after all. And of course I'd seem familiar, love: I was the one who took care of you and that frog during that dreadful snowstorm. Now eat your dirt."

"Oh. Okay." Wirt picked up his fork and began eating. Mrs. O'Sialia kept talking. Apparently Beatrice's mom was the nice one in the family.

"Anyways, I just couldn't resist helping out you two boys especially if they were as tired-looking as you. . ."

"Tired-looking," Wirt muttered under his breath.

". . . and especially since you two helped Beatrice get those scissors from that awful witch, Adelaide. Would you believe she wanted Harry and Seamus for her servants?" She cast a worried glance toward the living room, where two young boys sat playing with the dog. "Horrible woman!" A line of blue feathers stood up on her forearms as she talked, seemingly without her noticing. Wirt noted this unusual accessory and turned to Greg to confirm that he saw the weird feathers too and he wasn't insane.

Greg, who apparently didn't understand social norms and asked, "Why do you have feathers on your arms?"

Wirt cringed. "Greg, you can't just ask people why they have feathers on their arms!" he hissed under his breath.

Mrs. O'Sialia didn't seem to mind. The motherly woman smiled. "Oh, just a souvenir of our time as bluebirds. We all have them."

Greg snuck a look over his shoulder at the kids playing behind him. Yep– they had the line of feathers too. "Cool," he breathed.

"So. . . is Beatrice here? Can we see her?" Wirt asked.

Mrs. O'Sialia frowned. "No," she said slowly. "We don't see much of Beatrice anymore."

Wirt dropped his fork. "What? Is– is she okay?"

She nodded. "Oh, Beatrice is fine. Out of all of us, she was the only one to be able to use the bluebird's shape at will. You might see her on your quest."

"Quest? Oh, we-we're not on a quest. Are we?"

Beatrice's mother looked at him with a hint of bird-like curiosity in her eyes. "Isn't that why you're here? To keep the Unknown from fading?"

Greg gasped, by now done with his meal and able to concentrate on the matter at hand. "The Unknown is dying?!"

A shadow fell over Mrs. O'Sialia's face. "Do not speak that word here," she muttered. "I– I shouldn't speak to you of this. You should talk to my daughter, not me."

Wirt tried to ask her some more questions, but it was clear that the woman was greatly shocked and wouldn't be able to tell them much more. Mrs. O'Sialia was a kind, generous woman, but a superstitious one as well. A deed named was a deed as good as done, in her mind. Eventually, the boys decided to take their leave.

"Thank you for the food, Mrs. O'Sialia," Wirt said apologetically. "We'll tell Beatrice you said hi if we see her."

She gave a shaky smile. "Thank you, boys. I'm sorry I couldn't help you more. Be safe."

Greg waved, and they turned away.

Behind them sounded a bluebird's trill as they re-entered the autumnal woods.

* * *

It was midday as they set out again. The bright sun beat down on their heads as they followed the path again. As usual, Greg was the first to break the silence. "That was kinda weird," he said.

The frog croaked in agreement and Wirt nodded. "I wonder what she was talking about," he mused. "The Unknown is fading. . ."

They continued on in silence, each to his own thoughts. At the side of the road, a sign read "Pottsfield: One Mile."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the name O'Sialia: It seemed to me pretty obvious that they were Irish (red hair and freckles-- I mean, come on), so that was a starting point. I did a little research and when I found out the genus of bluebirds was Sialia and the old Irish word for 'fairy' was 'Sia', it was pretty obvious to give them a name along those lines.  
> As always, leave a comment or a kudos, or shoot me an ask at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Gradually, the colonial roofs and steeples of Pottsfield came into view through the mist-wreathed trees. Wirt huffed. "That was quicker than I remembered."

"Wirt?"

"Yes, Greg?"

"Do you think Enoch will remember us?"

"Eno– oh, that big pumpkin guy. Nah, it was a while ago. And we didn't really stay that long here." He shuddered. "Skeletons in pumpkins," Wirt muttered.

The fields of Pottsfield were much as they remembered it, rows of golden corn and full, ripe pumpkins on the vine. In fact, there seemed to be an overabundance of produce– squash rotted on the vine in places, and ears of corn dried and mildewed, unpicked.

The town seemed completely empty, but Wirt was expecting that. He gently but forcefully steered Greg away from the haystacks (he kept trying to jump into one, for some reason) and sighed. It seemed odd, being back in the Unknown without Beatrice hovering over his shoulder.

"Missing Beatrice?" Greg asked. Apparently his little brother had the uncanny ability to read emotions.

"What? No!" Wirt huffed. "Of course I don't miss her. She was– annoying. And rude. And–"

"And pretty!"

"How do you know she's pretty?We've only ever seen her as a bluebird. For all we know, she could have a missing eye, or buckteeth, or. . ."

The farmhouse loomed up ahead of them, its doors shut firm. Wirt frowned. "Should we. . . go in?"

"Yeah!"

The doors creaked as they pushed them open. The rays of afternoon sunlight barely illuminated the depths of the darkened barn and motes of dust danced in the air. There was an air of neglect in the old building, a far cry from the crowded, cheerful atmosphere of the harvest festival.

"This doesn't feel right," Wirt ventured into the silence. "What. . . happened here?"

In Greg's arms, the frog croaked out a warning as two glowing yellow eyes snapped open in the gloom.

"Ah!" Wirt gasped. "Greg, where are you?" He grabbed Greg and pulled him over to where he stood, not willing to risk losing his brother again.

The eyes came closer and closer, but they couldn't hear any movement, only see vague flickers in the dark. Wirt's heartbeat picked up, thudding in his ears so loudly he could barely hear himself think.

Then, in a decidedly anticlimatic revealing, a stray beam of light flooded the barn and revealed a small black cat with bright yellow eyes.

Greg "Ooh"-ed loudly and ran to hug the cat. Before Wirt could pull him back or compose a short soliloquy about the unreliability of the human eye, the cat sprang back from his little brother's eager hands and hissed loudly.

"Keep your sticky little hands off my fur," said the cat.

Wirt remembered that voice– in fact, it still sent shivers down his spine. Greg stumbled backward, taken aback. "E-Enoch?" Wirt quavered.

"Enoch?" the cat mused. There was no mistaking that voice– mellow and languid, like dusk on a late October evening. "Yes, that was what they called me, wasn't it? But my little pumpkins are gone– aye, gone, Pilgrim, and what say you?"

Wirt said something along the lines of "Ireallydon'tyeahno" and clutched Greg a little closer to him, still afraid despite the fact that the mayor of Pottsfield was currently about as tall as Jason Funderburker the frog.

Greg paid no heed to the talking cat and took a look around the bar. It was empty except for an enormous pumpkin-like head on the floor and a few ribbons and corn husks lying abandoned on the floor.

Enoch kept on talking. "And now with you unripened souls coming in and blowing out the lantern; not to mention that lovely Beast is gone, thanks to you two, things aren't as they should be."

Wirt felt the urge to defend his blowing out the lamp, despite the growing evidence that that might not have been the smartest thing to do at the time. "But I thought the Beast was evil," he argued. "Aren't you glad he's gone?"

Enoch turned to him, and even though he was a fluffy little cat with bushy whiskers, something in his glinting eyes gave away the eldritch power barely held in check. Inadvertently, Wirt took a step back.

"Foolish boy," Enoch sighed. "You speak lightly of that which you do not understand. You kill the Beast and you kill the Unknown!"

Outside, a chill wind blew through the empty fields.

They decided to bunk down for the night in the old barn. Enoch didn't seem to mind. He curled up with his tail over his eyes and was silent, waiting for a harvest too late in coming.

Wirt was a little leery at first of sleeping so close to the Lord of Autumn, but Greg's tired face and the weariness in his own soon banished any previous reservations. They lay down on the rustling bed of dry corn husks and fell asleep almost immediately.

Greg's dreams were chaotic; they were filled with twisting, turning tendrils of wood and the slow, unceasing pain of fingers and toes slowly elongating into roots and branches. He mumbled and wriggled fitfully in his sleep, but slept on in turmoil.

Wirt did not dream, only saw a flash of blue wings and felt a familiar weight on his shoulder.

In the morning, they set off again. They bid Enoch farewell (the cat only twitched his tail and told them, a mite testily, to close the doors behind them and that he would be keeping an eye on them during their journey).

"I don't know how I feel about Enoch following us," Wirt said as they set off on the path. "I mean, he did almost try to stuff us in pumpkins."

Greg only shrugged in response as he tried to keep an eye on his frog and look out for any signs of Enoch at the same time. Jason Funderburker hopped alongside the brothers, as relaxed as only a frog could be.

Slowly, Pottsfield faded behind them as they walked over the honey-gold fields. The swirling grass was empty; the soldiers had all returned home. A lone pumpkin head lay by the road, its empty eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

The first scattered trees began to appear beside the path. They were in the forest once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's Enoch! Definitely one of my favorite characters. As always, leave a comment or kudos and check me out on a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

It was late afternoon and honey-gold sunrays filtered through the leaves, illuminating the path ahead of them. Greg had decided to bring back the Adelaide Parade song, despite the nigh-on disastrous results of their actual meeting with Adelaide, and sang it softly as he walked along the broken-down stone wall.  
  
“Oh, we’re going to the pasture to meet Adelaide and ask her if she has a way to send us back where we came from. . .”  
  
Wirt hummed along absentmindedly as he kept his eyes ahead, waiting for the next encounter to present itself. He reckoned they’ve covered about the same amount of ground in a few hours that their younger selves had covered in a day, so they should be coming up to Ms. Langtree’s schoolhouse any moment now. But then, he could be completely wrong. Time and space were fluid in the Unknown.  
  
Gradually, they came to a clearing amongst the trees. In the center of it stood a small ramshackle building with cracked windows and dilapidated wood planks. The schoolhouse looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Even as they watched, a shingle fell off of the caving-in roof and thunked on the ground.  
  
As they neared the building, a flash of movement in the broken window caught his eye. He shot out an arm and caught Greg in the chest, holding him still. “Wait!” he hissed. “There’s someone in there.”  
  
Wirt led the way into the clearing, motioning for the others to be as quiet as possible. From the overgrown grass he picked up a flute, rusted and bent from time and disuse. He gripped it tightly, ready to swing it at the first sign of movement.  
  
Thus equipped, they ventured into the abandoned schoolhouse.  
  
Almost immediately, the mildewed floorboards groaned beneath their feet. Wirt winced. Anyone else in the building would automatically know someone else was there. Well, he thought. No point in caution now. He gripped his makeshift weapon just a little bit tighter. And if I see something I’ll just– brain it in the face. Yeah. That sounds good.  
  
The first room, the classroom, was completely empty. The dunce box was tipped over on its side, covered with a thick layer of dust. In fact, everything was covered in dust. Their feet stirred up great clouds of it and it hung in the still air like fog over the ocean. Greg coughed and stuck his tongue out dramatically as the frog kicked up a flurry of dust motes.  
  
Wirt ignored them and led the way into the dining room. Empty again. The famous jug of molasses lay on the piano, empty. The piano, when the frog hopped up to it and tapped a key, was rusty and out of tune. Greg picked up the empty, dried-out jug of molasses and held it upside down mournfully while Wirt stared at the floor. “Greg,” he said. Greg, who was too busy trying to coax a few nonexistent drops of molasses out of the jug, pretended not to hear him.  
  
“Greg,” Wirt said again, louder this time. “There’s footprints on the floor.” He crouched down and dabbed his finger at the print. He inspected his finger. Clean and dust-free. Wirt stood back up, dusting off his hand on his pants. “Recent ones.”  
  
There was only one room left in the building. Whoever was here had to be in the dormitory.  
  
Wirt stepped over the creaking floor as gingerly as possible, heading toward the next room. Greg followed close behind, holding Jason Funderburker close. His heartbeat picked up, thumping in his throat as he slowly cracked open the door. All he registered was a flash of movement in front of him before he swung out with the rust flute. There was a thunk as it connected with something and a loud, angry “Ow!”  
  
Wirt yelped and dropped the flute. He knew that voice.  
  
Greg, hearing the commotion, peeked around his older brother’s legs and ran forward, throwing his arms around the stranger. Wirt made no move to stop him, dumbfounded as he was.  
  
A girl was sitting on the bed closest to the door, hugging Greg back with one hand and massaging the side of her head with the other. She glared at Wirt angrily. If her eyes were daggers, he would’ve been Julius Caesar. He took a timid step forward. “Be-Beatrice?”  
  
Her eyes widened and she stood up. Wirt noted with a bit of smugness that he was taller than her now. “Wow,” she breathed, moving closer to him. “You look. . . taller.”  
  
“You look less feathery,” Wirt blurted out. He mentally hit himself in the head. Of course she’s less feathery. She’s a human now, stupid!  
  
Greg looked up from where he sat next to Beatrice. “See!” he declared proudly. “She’s pretty! No buckteeth and both eyes. I told ya, Wirt!”  
  
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “I’m going to ignore that,” she muttered. Her arm-feathers began to lie flat again and she sat back down on the bed. Around her was strewn sheaves of handwritten notes and a book the kind that looked like it was used to summon eldritch horrors on a windswept clifftop under a gibbous moon.  
  
Wirt sat on the bed opposite her, grateful to rest his feet for a moment. An awkward silence filled the room as the two teenagers stared at their shoes, both unwilling to be the first to speak. Greg, as usual, was the first to break the silence. “So!” he said brightly. “What kind of shenanigans have you been getting up to, Beatrice?” The frog ribbeted loudly, apparently just as curious as his friend.  
  
Beatrice smiled awkwardly, inwardly grateful to the little boy and his nonexistent social sense. “Well,” she said, shuffling her sheets of notes around. “I can give you the long answer or the short answer.”  
  
“The long answer,” Wirt said. “Please,” he added, almost as an afterthought.  
  
She smiled wryly and held up her notes. “Get ready,” she said. “This is going to take a while.”  
  
Wirt, ever the bookworm, interrupted her before she even started and pointed at the book. “Wait. Where’d you get that?”  
  
She held up the book, allowing him to see the cover: The Tome of the Unknown; Being a Guide to the Place Between Worlds and its Inhabitants. There was no author. “This book?” she said. “Oh, I nicked it from that girl Lorna over in the woods.” She made a face. “Never liked her anyway.”  
  
Wirt said something like “Ohwellikindano” and decided to keep quiet for the time being.  
  
“Anyways,” Beatrice went on, “I’m pretty sure you’ve been hearing some things about the Unknown dying or fading or whatnot.”  
  
The two brothers nodded.  
  
She nodded smugly. “That’s what I thought. Well, they’re right.”  
  
Greg gasped, but somehow managed to keep his curiosity in check. Wirt went even paler than usual and swallowed nervously. “What?” he asked, shocked.  
  
Beatrice sighed. “Well, you remember when you blew out that lantern and killed the Beast?”  
  
The brothers nodded again.  
  
She continued on. “Turns out when you kill the Beast, you sort of upset the whole balance of things in the Unknown. According to this book, it’s kind of like an ecosystem– there’s a very delicate balance.  
  
“The Unknown is, first and foremost, a place of death”– she lowered her voice on that last word (most of the inhabitants here didn’t like that word) “– and souls that come here are usually those who have left that, well, wanted to do a little more before going to the Big Place. It was a balance: the Queen of Cloud City watched over us, Enoch and his brothers guided those who traveled through the Unknown, and the Beast took those who didn’t want to wait that long. After they turned into Edelwood trees and burned in the lamp, their souls would be free to go to wherever they were fated to end up, be it Heaven or Hell.” Beatrice sighed. “But since you blew out that lantern–” she glanced at Wirt “– there is no Beast. And without the Beast to keep the Forest in check, the trees are spreading.”  
  
Wirt decided to break his erstwhile vow of silence. “Wait,” he said. “What do you mean, the trees are spreading?”  
  
She met his eyes. “The Forest is out of control and it’s turning people into trees. Everyone. The Woodsman is gone– I was walking in the woods and I found his hat and coat on the branches of an Edelwood tree. Ever since he realized his daughter was really dead, he just didn’t have any motivation to keep living any more.”  
  
Wirt scanned her face, hoping that this was some kind of sick joke or something, but her face was completely serious. He felt nauseous. This was really happening.  
  
Beatrice kept talking. “And it’s affecting everyone. The last time I stopped by the Tavern it was definitely emptier, and people even as far away as Morturia and Lichport are being affected.” She swallowed hard. “If this keeps going on, this whole place will be all trees. Just one big, eternal Forest. Forever.”  
  
The three sat in silence again, their reunion tainted by the shadow of the growing doom. Greg looked like he wanted to throw up; Wirt silently seconded that feeling. All of the people of the Unknown, turned into trees– he remembered how it felt to wake up and find yourself covered in tendrils of Edelwood and he wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.  
  
Greg spoke up, uncharacteristically serious. “That makes sense. Ever since we came back, I felt like there was something wrong. It wasn’t as Unknown-y. And that’s a rock fact,” he added softly.  
  
“How do you know all this?” Wirt wanted to know.  
  
Beatrice gave a wan smile, and for the first time Wirt noticed the tired-looking shadows under her eyes. “I did some research,” she said. “Since I can still turn into a bird, I did some scouting. And I felt that something was different around here too, Greg. So when Ms. Langtree– sorry, Mrs. Brown now– moved to Lichport with Jimmy, I repurposed the schoolhouse and did some digging. Although right now,” she added,”I’m just glad that summoning spell worked and you two are here.”  
  
Wirt threw up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa. Slow down. You brought us here?”  
  
She nodded, not looking guilty at all. “Yeah, sorry about that. But you guys were the only people to ever outwit the Beast and I need your help if we’re going to save the Unknown.” It hadn’t been hard– all she needed was a few tools and the book to cast the spell. “But you two are still dorks,” she added as an afterthought.  
  
Wirt ignored that last part and reached for the book. He cracked it open and read aloud the first paragraph: “Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history lies a place that few have seen. A mysterious place called the Unknown, where long-forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood.” He looked up from the page. “Who wrote this?” he asked.  
  
Beatrice shrugged. “I dunno. Whoever he or she was, they did a lot of work writing it.”  
  
Wirt looked back down at the book. “They may be a better writer than me,” he admitted grudgingly.  
  
Beatrice smirked. “Nerd.”  
  
“So what are we going to do?” Greg asked.  
  
Beatrice managed to stop snarking at Wirt long enough to answer Greg’s question. “Well,” she said. “Like I said, I’ve been doing some work, taking notes, scouting the Unknown and such, and I have concluded–“ self-importantly”– that the only thing for us to do is go back to where the Beast died and try to bring him back.”  
  
“Why do you need us to do that?” Wirt asked. “Why can’t you just do it yourself?”  
  
Beatrice flushed and looked away. “Well, since you guys were the first to outwit the Beast, and, you know, since I kinda–” her voice dropped a notch ”–lost you guys after trying to sell you to Adelaide and–” her voice dropped even lower ”– I would get lost on the way without you.” Her face was bright red and an irritatingly familiar feeling of guilt settled in her stomach as she remembered how she had betrayed the two brothers.  
  
Wirt looked righteous and indignant at that, but let the matter rest for the time being. Greg yawned next to Beatrice and rested his head against her arm, apparently impervious to past slights. Wirt yawned himself, more tired than he thought.  
  
Beatrice dared to meet his eyes again. “So will you help us?” she asked. “I-I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s okay; I can just send you back again or something–”  
  
Wirt yawned again and waved a hand, effectively cutting her off. “I’m sorry, Beatrice, but we’re tired. Can we do this tomorrow?”  
  
She nodded, realizing how tired she was, and had to stifle a yawn herself. “Fine.” She helped them dust off two other beds as best as she could and restacked her notes on the floor. She lay down on her own bed and stared at the ceiling. It was odd hearing other people in the room after weeks of solitude. But she’d shared rooms with plenty of siblings before. She’d adjust. She smiled up into the darkness. Finally, they were going to do something.  
  
Wirt lay awake long after the other two had fallen asleep, his mind buzzing despite the weariness in his bones. Foremost at the front of his mind was the question ‘Could they trust Beatrice?’ The last time they had trusted her, she had led them to a crazy old lady with a yarn fetish and weirdly masculine voice. But on the other hand, she was only doing it to help her family, and she had made it up to them by helping him save Greg. And she seemed different now. He wouldn’t say nicer, exactly, but older. Like she had seen firsthand what would happen if the Unknown fell apart and refused to let that happen. Wirt turned over in bed and tried to clear his mind. Acutely aware of the girl one bed over, sleep was a long time coming.  
  
Outside in the darkened forest, a black cat laughed softly, amused by the goings-on of these tiny souls and their tiny thoughts. He licked a paw, scrubbed it over his face, and curled up, dreaming about pumpkins and corn, trees and fields.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's Beatrice! Leave a review, and thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

 

Beatrice was, as usual, the first to wake up the next day. Somehow, overnight, Greg had moved from his bed to Wirt’s and the two brothers lay curled up next to each other like kittens in a basket. She smiled at that before she caught herself and gave them a shake to wake them up.  
  
Greg woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, jumping out of bed as energetic as only a nine-year-old could be. Wirt, on the other hand, looked like death warmed over, with the most unruly bed head she had ever seen and a death glare to kill.  
  
While Wirt woke up, Beatrice sat on her bed and waited impatiently for him to be able to form a coherent sentence. When he managed to be aware of his surroundings enough to fuss at Greg to stop trying to play the rusty flute, she decided to get things going. “So, we should probably get moving,” she said. “That is, if you’re going to be helping us.”  
  
At that, Wirt looked away, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, well I-I dunno. It seems kind of dangerous. Greg?” he asked. “What do you think?”  
  
“You can do anything if you set your mind to it!” Greg said cheerfully. “That’s what all the old people say, anyways. So I think we should do it!” They both looked at Wirt, waiting to see his response.  
  
Outnumbered, he dragged a hand over his face before groaning loudly. “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “But you better not lead us to a crazy witch or anything, Beatrice.”  
  
She glared at him and stood up. “Fine. Let’s get going then.”  
  
It felt good to be on the road with people she knew, although Beatrice would never say that out loud. She shoved the book and her notes under the bed, out of sight. Hopefully, they’ll be still be there when she gets back. If she gets back.  
  
Shaking off the macabre thoughts, she brushed off her dress and walked outside. The crisp autumn air and bright sunlight quickly drove away any negative thoughts and woke her up. She closed her eyes, spread her arms to the burnished sky and shifted. Pins and needles prickled down her arms and legs as feathers grew and her skeletal structure liquified. With a faint flare of pain, her bones resolidified and she opened her eyes again, significantly shorter than she was half a minute ago.  
  
She beat her newly-formed wings and lofted into the air. Every time she shifted, she forgot just how good it felt to fly. She spun around in midair and found the two brothers gawking at her. “What?” she asked crossly.  
  
“You– you just– you just–” Wirt stammered. Beside him, Greg’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. Even the frog was a little nonplussed.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, let’s get going. I don’t have time for this.”  
  
“And there’s the Beatrice we all know and love," Wirt grumbled, beginning to walk.  
  
She flew ahead of them and doubled back again, relishing her wings before alighting on Wirt’s shoulder. “We should stick to the route we took last time,” she said. “After we pass Frogland, you two will have to lead, though.” At the mention of Frogland, the frog ribbeted loudly and Greg’s eyes lit up. He burst into a nonsense song about frogs and a boat as they walked.  
  
The two older people ignored him. They had more important things to talk about. Specifically, Wirt’s social life.  
  
“So,” Beatrice said from her perch on his shoulder. “How’s your Sara doing?”  
  
Wirt colored. “Why do you want to know?”  
  
She shrugged as best as a bird could. “Dunno. Curious, I guess, since she was kind of the reason you came to the Unknown in the first place.”  
  
“Oh.” Wirt stared at the ground. “Well, we– we dated for a bit, after she listened to my mixtape. And it was cool, y’know, she was a nice person, and everyone liked her, and it was okay. But after a while it just. . . stopped working. I don’t really know what happened. But we’re not. . . together anymore.”  
  
They walked on for a bit in silence. Then Beatrice said, very softly, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Wirt waved it off. “It’s okay,” he said. “It was a while ago. She’s seeing someone else now.”  
  
“What about you? How are you doing?”  
  
“I’m. . . doing all right, I guess. Got some poems published, so that’s good. And I’ve got most of my free time sucked up by this little nutjob–” he nodded toward Greg, who was throwing the frog up in the air and catching him “– making sure he doesn’t poke his eye out or anything. And I’ll be heading to college soon.” He didn’t tell her how he’s stupidly, irrationally afraid when he sees pumpkins, or when he watches Greg play in the woods. Or how he jumps whenever he sees headlights, coming toward him through the darkness like the glowing, perfectly circular eyes of the Beast. He was quiet for a bit. Then, “How are you doing, Beatrice?”  
  
She huffed, like she was a little awkward talking about her life. “Well, I’m coming to terms with being dead, so that’s good,” she quipped, unconsciously echoing him. “I want to be a better sister, so I’ve been trying to spend more time with my family, but. . . well, it’s been hard with all of the research lately.” She ruffled her feathers and sighed. “But other than that, nothing much.”  
  
Wirt nodded at that, and they walked on.  
  
It took most of the day to reach the Tavern, despite the fact that they hitched a ride on a farmer’s wagon. The ride was considerably smoother, seeing as there was no Beast (at the moment) to incite such fear in the driver.  
  
Greg burrowed deep into the stack of hay, pulling his frog along with him and leaving the two teenagers outside to talk. Inside the haystack, Greg hollowed out a small cave for himself and Jason Funderburker, complete with a skylight and window. He settled into his new role as spymaster with all the ease of a child with a vivid imagination.  
  
Two wide eyes stared out of the hay at Beatrice and his older brother, the former laughing softly and the latter more relaxed than he’d been in a while, despite the imminent danger of their quest. Greg was determined to ensure that no hanky-panky mushy stuff was going to happen, no matter how embarrassed his brother might get. He shook his head determinedly. Nuh-uh. Not on his watch.  
  
The cat rattled on, and beside the road a small black cat ran, placing each paw on the ground with the silent caution inherent in all felines. He had made a promise to watch over the young souls, and he would keep it. Despite himself, the brothers were beginning to grow on the Mayor of Pottsfield.  
  
*  
The wagon-driver had the courtesy to drop them off outside the Tavern, and Wirt called out a hasty “Thank you” as the cart pulled away. Beatrice led the way up to the Tavern’s door and placed her hand on the knob. She looked back at the other two. “You ready?”  
  
They nodded, and she pushed open the door.  
  
The moment they entered the Tavern, all talk and activity stopped. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so intimidating. Even the dog that lay across the threshold ceased its gnawing at a bone as the occupants of the room stared at them.  
  
Wirt felt Beatrice tense in front of him as the Tavern-Keeper stood up from behind a table. A palpable aura of tension filled the room as the squat woman rounded the table and came toward them, dread plain on her face. “What are ye doing here, Pilgrim?” she hissed loudly. “You know ‘tis not safe to be about the woods at night.” As usual, she spoke to Wirt and paid no heed to the former bluebird in their midst. Beatrice, who did not miss this, huffed in annoyance and allowed the feathers on her arms to flare out, impatient. Looked like Wirt would have to handle this one.  
  
“What– what do you mean?” Wirt asked. “Isn’t the Beast gone? What are you afraid of?”  
  
The whole tavern gave a collective shudder and the Toymaker spoke up, noticeably less jovial than their last visit. “The Beast is gone, aye, but the Forest is still there,” he quavered in his old-man voice. “Why, just last night I saw the butcher– oh, that poor, poor man– wrapped in the Edelwood like some terrible parody of a blanket.” The shocked man shuddered convulsively. “I tried to tear the creeping tendrils off of him, but I– I wasn’t strong enough.” He gazed down at his shaking hands in silence.  
  
Wirt was visibly shocked by the unnerving change wrought in the kindly old man. “I– I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “I never should have blown out that lamp.”  
  
Abruptly, the mood in the Tavern changed yet again, this time from a weary, tired fear to a hysterical anger.  
  
“You were the one who blew out the lamp?” the Midwife shrieked.  
  
“No!” Wirt cringed. “I– I mean, yes, I did blow it out, but–"  
  
The room exploded into uproar as every person in the Tavern began to berate the teen. The Baker and Patissier stood up, brandishing rolling pins, and the Tavern-Keeper stood against the wall, either too afraid or too apathetic to stop the rising mob. “Yeah!” someone yelled. “Ever since you kids came here, bad luck’s been following you!”  
  
The moment things in the Tavern got a little too violent for Beatrice’s taste, she climbed up on a table and yelled at the top of her lungs.  
  
The room quieted almost immediately and she nearly smiled (that had always worked on her siblings and she was surprised it had worked now). The feathers on her arms stood out as she snarled, “Listen up, all of you.”  
  
Everyone froze, including the brothers (Greg was clutching the frog to his chest like a lifeline and Wirt hovered behind Beatrice like the conflict-avoiding poet he was).  
  
“We understand,” she continued, her voice ringing through the empty air, “that you have been through god knows what and we apologize.”  
  
“We do?” Wirt muttered.  
  
She shot a glare at him and he shut up immediately. She kept talking. “But we, good people of the Tavern, are on a Quest.”  
  
“A Quest. . .” The crowd murmured amongst themselves, surprise and awe plain in their voices.  
  
The apprentice was the first to ask “What kind of Quest?”  
  
Beatrice turned to him and smiled as charmingly as she could. “We’re glad you asked,” she said. “We are. . . on a mission to stop the Forest from spreading. And once we get to our destination, we’re going to hack down the Father of Trees where it stands!”  
  
The crowd broke into cheers and Beatrice smiled. That was the thing about people like these– they only respected someone who put on a show. “So we need your help, good people,” she said, lying through her teeth, “to get to the Mad Gentleman’s mansion, and a swift horse.”  
  
The master stood up. “You can take my horse,” he cried, and as one, the crowd swarmed around Beatrice, lifted her up, and carried her cheering to the stables. The brothers followed, dumbstruck.  
  
They deposited her gently outside the stable. “Good luck, Quester,” the Tavern-Quester chirped.  
  
“Thank you,” said Beatrice as she boosted Greg onto the horse. “Be safe.”  
  
Somehow, Wirt had managed to scramble atop the horse and she shifted, clinging to the horse’s bridle with tiny bird feet. She heard someone say, “Hey, is that that bluebird who. . .” before someone gave the horse a slap and they sped off into the night.  
  
*  
They had been riding for a while now and night had fallen rapidly. The half-moon floated in a velvet-soft sky as stars glimmered above them. The trees reached up to the sky, bare arms seeking the cold warmth of the moon.  
  
Greg had somehow managed to fall asleep, despite the jolting pace of the horse. Wirt held him securely in front of him, making sure his little brother won’t fall off. He felt his own eyes drooping in weariness, and even Beatrice had tucked her head under her wings, leaving him alone to take the night watch.  
  
His head was beginning to nod when the horse startled, jolting them all awake. The horse was sidestepping nervously, edging away from a dark lump in the road. Against all of his better judgement, he stepped down from the horse and cautiously approached the thing in the road.  
  
A flutter of wings sounded by his ear and he felt Beatrice settle on his shoulder. “What is that?” she whispered.  
  
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”  
  
The closer they got to the object, the more disconcertingly human-shaped it became. His hands began shaking as they became close enough to make out the details. At his side, Beatrice gasped aloud.  
  
The Highwayman lay upon the road, and the sickly-sweet scent of the Edelwood tree hung heavy in the air. Tendrils of the soul-devouring plant had wound its way over the robber’s body, encasing him almost entirely in wood. The man’s skin was pale and there were pronounced bags under his eyes, liked the Edelwood was sucking the very life out of him. Through his skin ran a thin tracery of black, as if oil ran through his veins. Beside his hand lay a knife and a dimmed lamp, making it easy for them to see what must have happened. (Beside the road, a black turtle crawled away from the Highwayman’s body, heading deeper into the Forest.)  
  
Beatrice voiced the obvious : “He must’ve been out here waiting for us to ride by. But the Forest got to him instead.” Wirt felt her shudder and her feet dug deeper into his shoulder.  
  
Halfheartedly, he knelt down and tried to strip the branches away, but something told him the Highwayman had earned this fate. Anyone who made a living off of killing innocent people deserved to burn in the lamp. The tendrils were too tight to tear away barehanded, as if the Forest was determined to keep this one for good.  
  
Soft footsteps sounded on the cobblestones and Greg stood over the Highwayman’s body. “Should we help him?” he asked. Even Greg, always willing to do the right thing, sounded hesitant.  
  
Wirt stood up. “No.” He did his best to sound decisive. “He’s too far gone. There’s no point.”  
  
Suddenly, a clatter of hooves rang out and they whipped around. The horse, spooked by the scent of death in the air, had bolted, leaving them alone on the road.  
  
“Well, there goes our ride,” said Beatrice.  
  
“It– it’s okay. We’re pretty close.” Wirt looked to the horizon, where, three or so miles away, stood the silhouette of a mansion, strange and jagged against the skyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews are the oil that keep my lantern lit! Please review, and thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, updating a day early.

Chapter Five

Greg stood at the doors of the Endicott mansion, his eyes wide as he took in the building. The formerly well-tended mansion was in an alarming state of neglect, a far cry from its former opulence.

As Wirt hurried to catch up to his younger brother, he glanced up at the mouldering walls and his heart sank. This couldn't bode well for Endicott and his French business competitor.

Greg pushed open the doors and they creaked ominously as they slid over the dusty floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he scanned the room and gasped. Beside him, the frog croaked loudly in foreboding. It appeared that the Forest had not balked when confronted with walls, but instead had forced its way in with creeping root and branch.

Wirt pushed the doors open and he and Beatrice gasped in unison, shocked. The formerly pristine floor of white marble tiles was cracked and soiled with dust and dirt. Vines crawled up the walls and the floor was slick with oil. Tiny shrubs and saplings grew up from the floor and the sickeningly familiar scent of the Edelwood filled the air.

There was a slight rustling as Beatrice shifted back into a girl again and looked around. "This doesn't look too good," she said uneasily.

Wirt nodded in agreement as they came further into the house. Their footsteps echoed eerily through the empty air.

Greg stood in the center of the entrance hall, stunned disbelief plain on his face. He couldn't believe that the bright, cheerful house had so quickly degenerated into a gloomy, walled-in forest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what must have happened, but the ever-optimistic nine-year-old refused to admit the worst.

Wirt came up behind him and rested a warm hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Greg," he said as reassuringly as he could. "Do you wanna. . . look around or anything? See what's. . . going on?"

Greg nodded silently, looking around the room again as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Hey, Greg," Wirt said again, a little worried. His little brother wasn't usually this quiet. "You okay?"

Greg managed to pull up a smile that didn't look too fake. "I'm jim dandy, brother o' mine. Me and Jason Funderburker will start looking over there." He headed off to the right, his loyal frog hopping after him.

Beatrice looked at Wirt, alone in the empty room together. "Well," she said. "Guess we'll have to spend some quality time together."

Wirt smiled.

They had just finished combing through about half of the rooms on the West Wing, and things weren't looking too good. There were no signs of life whatsoever, and Wirt was beginning to worry.

He and Beatrice worked side by side together, scanning each room in a kind of companionable silence for the most part, broken only by Beatrice cursing whenever someone knocked over a vase or lamp.

They were heading down the hall toward the next room when Beatrice broke the silence. "I. . . I just wanted to let you know. . ." She rubbed the back of her neck uncomfortably. "I wanted to let you know that I'm sorry about betraying you guys to Adelaide. I should've– lied to her or tricked her or something." Her flaming cheeks clashed violently with her red hair.

Wirt flushed himself. "It's– it's okay, Beatrice. It was a while ago, and, well, you did what you had to do."

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Any– anytime," he said awkwardly.

They had worked their way through two more rooms (getting decidedly more rococo-esque as they went on) before Wirt remembered something. "Oh, I found your gravestone, by the way."

Beatrice froze in the middle of riffling through a set of drawers. "You did?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Beatrice O'Sialia. 1802 to 1819. Along with the rest of your family."

"Oh." She looked down at her hands, thinking. Somewhere in another world, her bones lay rotting under six feet of dirt. It was an unnerving thought, knowing that you were dead.

Wirt went on. "I. . . put some flowers on it. Cleaned it up a bit. If you. . .don't mind or anything." He cast a nervous glance at her.

"No," she said quickly, looking up from her hands. "No, it's all right. It's nice to be remembered, I guess."

There was another pause in the conversation. Their talk seemed to be filled with gaps neither of them felt the urge to fill. Then– "How did you and your family die? I- if you don't mind me asking?"

She waved it off. "No, no, it's okay." She was silent for a bit, remembering. "It was the way a lot of families went. Cholera. It spreads in close quarters." She stared away from him, completely lost in memory. "My two little brothers were the first to go. They were twins. They barely lasted a day apart from each other. The sickness began creeping through us, youngest to oldest. Through some sick twist of fate, I was the last to die." She swallowed hard. "I lay there in that for days, too weak to do anything. The whole house stank like rotting meat and I lay on the bed next to my mother's corpse. I thought, Maybe this is my punishment for being such an awful daughter and sister. And that– that was hell on earth. The afterlife couldn't have been worse, to me. And then I woke up here." Her voice was hollow. "It took me a while to realize I was dead. When I did I was furious. And. . . well, you know the rest."

Her voice had not shaken a bit as she spoke, but her nose was red as if she was doing her best not to cry. Tentatively, Wirt put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Beatrice."

She leaned into his touch as Beatrice O'Sialia cried for the first time since her death.

Wirt, who for all the love poems he wrote, still had no idea what to do around a crying girl, awkwardly put his arm around her. He swallowed. "I don't think you're an awful person," he offered quietly. She didn't say anything, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a watery smile.

They sat in silence for a while in the disheveled room before moving on.

The two were on the last room of the West Wing and were about to go find Greg when they heard a scream. Greg. They looked at each other and ran.

Wirt sped down the hallway like a madman, panic writ clear on his face. He flung open door after door, scanning each room briefly for his brother and moving on. Beatrice hurried after him, just as worried. Finally, Wirt threw open a door and found his brother.

Greg sat on the ruined floor of Quincy and Marguerite Endicott's bedroom and sobbed, clutching the frog to his chest like broken hope. Wirt ran to him and wrapped a protective arm around his brother as he looked toward the center of the room. Beatrice came in and cursed when she saw what they were looking at.

Here the sickly-sweet stench of the Edelwood hung in the air like some malicious parody of perfume, and the floor was slick with oil. Rooted in the master bed were two Edelwood trees, twined about each other and weeping black oil tears from ruined eye sockets. It was plain to see what had happened. Wirt bowed his head and thought of how they must've died, huddled together in bed waiting for the Edelwood to cover their eyes.

Greg sobbed like his heart was breaking. He was fonder of the old gentleman than he'd admitted to, and seeing his erstwhile uncle suffer the same fate he was so close to succumbing to was too much for the little boy. He curled up against his brother and cried.

Wirt wrapped his arms around his little brother and rocked him back and forth in silence, doing his best to comfort him. Beatrice knelt down beside them and hugged the two brothers tightly as she stared up at the two trees in silence.

Outside, a chill wind whistled through the restless trees and a black cat bowed his head.

The first thing Greg said after he calmed down was, croaky and hiccuping, "But how are we going to pay for the ferry?"

Beatrice gave him a side-hug and whispered, "It's okay. I have some coins in the lining of my dress."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, poor Endicotts. We knew them well, readers. As always, leave a comment or kudos!


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

It turned out that they didn't really need Beatrice's hidden pocket changeafter all. When Wirt tried to hand the frog manning (or frogging) the money, the bespectacled frog shied away from the metal and hissed as the copper crossed its palm. Wirt shrugged and tossed the coins back to Beatrice, but something in the air didn't feel right. When the feathers on her arms started prickling up, she knew something wasn't right. The feathers never lied.

She scanned the ferry. Greg was talking earnestly to his frog while Wirt dozed off by the railing. Everything seemed normal. But the frogs– the frogs. That was what was different. Their formerly green, healthy-looking skin had greyed, and thin, barely-there threads of black ran through their the sight of those faint, dark traceries, she was unpleasantly reminded of the Highwayman's wasted skin and she shuddered, although the late autumn sun was warm on her face. She pushed it away and walked over to the others.

"Hey," she said. "I think we should walk."

"What?" Wirt looked up blearily, yawning. "Why?"

She looked around the boat again, uneasy. "Something doesn't feel right. I think we should get off."

Wirt yawned again and waved her off. "I think all that research has made you paranoid. Relax. No one's going to try and kill us here."

She "Rrr"-ed in frustration and slouched against the railing, leveling a suspicious glare at the other inhabitants of the boat. The captain of the boat returned her gaze with blank, empty eyes and she slouched down even further. This was going to be a long ride.

Much to Beatrice's surprise, the ferry-ride was uneventful for the most part (except when Greg's frog decided to chat up one of the lady frogs and things had gotten a little messy). The tension in the air had not abated, however, and she felt like her nerves were as tightly wound as Adelaide's skeins of yarn.

The tipping point came when the ferry pulled up at the swamplands and they were readying to disembark the boat. Wirt stretched, marginally more cheerful after dozing the ride away, and said, "See, Beatrice? We're fine. Now all we need to do is stop the Forest from spreading and–" He cut himself off in mid-sentence as the frogs' heads snapped around in unison to stare at him. He shrank back, visibly unnerved. "Was it– was it something I said?"

Slowly, the frogs began to converge on them, flopping over the deck on damp frog feet. As they drew closer, their state became apparent. Something about their flat, blank eyes and the veins of black running through their grey skin made it clear: these were not the frogs that had ferried them to the swamplands three years ago. Their minds had been claimed by the Forest. The ever-growing scent of oil grew in the air as they became surrounded.

Wirt shrank back against the railing as the frogs came closer. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this was where Lovecraft took his inspiration for the people of Innsmouth.

Beside him, Beatrice cursed. "This is what happened to the Highwayman!" she yelled above the eerie croaking and ribbiting. "When you mentioned stopping the Forest, you must've made them mad!"

The frog closest to them shot out its tongue and caught her on the wrist. She hissed in pain. "Don't let them touch you!" she shouted. Her wrist felt like someone had scrubbed it with steel wool and sulfuric acid. "I flippin' told you so," she muttered, fumbling with her skirt.

Beside her, Wirt yelped as he tried to kick a frog away. "What do we do?"

Jason Funderburker croaked in panic as his fellow frogs did their best to push him and Greg over the side of the ferry and into the river.

"Oh, now you want my help?" she panted, trying to bite through the seams at the hem of her dress.

"Yes!" Wirt yelled. There was a dull,meaty thud as Greg hurled his teapot at another frog, sending it flying back into two of its friends.

She gave up and ripped the bottom of her skirt in half. In a shower of metallic-sounding thuds and clinks, enough coins to fill a small piggy bank clattered to the floor of the boat. At the sound of metal, the demented frogs drew back, hissing.

Beatrice scooped up a handful of pennies and shoved them in Greg's hands. She snatched up more and passed some to Wirt, keeping a handful for herself.

Wirt stared at the fifteen cents or so in his hand. "This is your plan?" He sounded near-hysterical. "Pocket change?"

Stressed and hopped up on adrenaline, she snapped at him. "Yes!" she snarled, feinting at a frog with a nickel. "Haven't you read your fairytales? Forest creatures hate metal, fool!"

His eyes widened and he began hurling coins at the frogs. Where the metal touched the frogs' skin, it blistered and puckered like red, angry scars. Greg threw coins haphazardly not really caring about where the coins landed as long as the possessed amphibians kept their distance. Wirt was a little more conservative with his ammunition, carefully aiming and targeting for the most effect.

And Beatrice? Hell, she just wanted to inflict as much damage as possible.

Slowly, they fought their way to the ramp that led down to the bank. Greg was the first to reach the ground, then Wirt, then Beatrice, brandishing her last penny as they retreated. Once everyone was off of the boat, they ran, not waiting to see whether they were being pursued or not.

When they were a decent distance away from the river, they stopped. Wirt bent over, trying to catch his breath. Greg sat down on the dry leaves, tired, and Beatrice prodded at her stinging arm, wincing at the pain. That's going to scar, she thought as she did her best to bandage it with some fabric torn from the ruined skirt of her dress.

Wirt slumped down next to a tree and rubbed his face wearily. "Guys," he said. "We need to talk."

"Uh-oh." Beatrice sat down across from him "That's never good."

He sighed and his shoulders drooped. "I think you two should go home."

"What?" Beatrice and Greg shouted in unison, shocked. "Why?"

He rested his head against the rough bark of the tree and looked up at the sky. Night was falling. "Crazy trees, fading worlds, demented frogs. . . this is all my fault. I was the one who blew out the lamp. You two should go somewhere safe and let me do this alone."

Beatrice opened her mouth to protest but Greg beat her to the punch. The little boy glared. "No," he said firmly. "No brother o' mine is going to do this alone."

"But I won't be alone," Wirt reasoned. "Enoch's looking after us, right? I'll be fine."

Beatrice frowned. "I don't trust him," she said. "Wirt, this is crazy. I– we can't let you do this. It'd be suicide. You're practically helpless. You are helpless." She cast about for some sort of compromise, anything. "Listen, how about we–"

"No," he cut her off. "You listen. Everyone has a torch to bear, and this one must be mine," he said, unconsciously echoing the Woodsman from so long ago. "I was the one who killed the Beast, and I have to be the one to bring him back. It's the fault in our stars. He who kills the Beast becomes the Beast. I know this," he said desperately. "I can't risk you guys getting hurt because of me."

Wirt stood up, his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. The other two scrambled to their feet as well, stirring up flurries of leaves. "I know this," he repeated. "I can feel it. Look, the Edelwood's beginning to move faster already."

Beatrice looked down and swore violently. She shook her foot, breaking away the thin tendrils of Edelwood crawling over her shoes. "What the hell," she muttered halfheartedly. She looked up at Wirt. "Well, what are you going to do?" she challenged. "If we do leave?"

Wirt lifted his chin, looking as poetically noble as he could. "When you guys leave, I'll talk to Auntie Whispers, get her advice. And while you guys are safe, I'll bring back the Beast."

Even during that short speech, the Edelwood was growing again over her feet, as if she was fuel for the Forest's unnatural, quickly-growing appetite. (Oddly, Wirt seemed to be unaffected, and no vines grew about his feet.) She gritted her teeth, hating herself. "Fine," she spat. "But the moment a week passes, I'm flying back to get you."

"Fine." Wirt glanced down to see Greg hugging his leg tightly, as if he would never let him go. Ever since the incident at Endicott Mansion, he'd been loath to see his elder brother go out of sight.

"I don't want you to go," the boy whispered.

"I don't want me to go either," Wirt said softly, crouching down to his brother's level. "But I have to."

"Why?" he asked plaintively.

"It's like–" Wirt cast about for an explanation. "It's like when something happens and you know there could have been no other way. It's like fate. You're pulled to do it, like leaves swept down an inexorable tide to oblivion. I just have to do it, okay? I'll be fine." He hugged his little brother tightly, resting his chin atop the cool metal of the teapot. "I promise." He smiled softly. "And that's a rock fact."

Wirt stood up, meeting Beatrice's eyes from where she stood, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. "Keep him safe, Beatrice," he said.

"I will." She met his eyes steadily and he felt comforted, knowing that Greg was in more-than-capable hands.

"Thank you."

Then all of a sudden, she was hugging him and tangled red hair was all he could see. "You wonderful mistake of nature," she whispered fiercely, almost angrily, and he hugged her back. He could feel her beating heart thudding against his own and he thought that, being dead, she was more alive than anyone he had ever known before.

Wirt stood by the edge of the forest and watched as the two people he cared about most drew steadily farther and farther away from him. A trail of broken and snapped Edelwood vines stretched like footprints behind them and he silently hoped that Beatrice had the sense to keep to the parts of the Unknown where the pull of the Forest wasn't as strong.

When they were swallowed up by the shifting fog he turned around and began the long walk to redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no regrets about the frogs. None at all.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

He walked for what felt like ages, retracing the steps he took so long ago. It was so much quieter now without Beatrice or Greg along to fill the silences. He hadn’t realized how stifling, how maddening such silence could be.  
  
Some time later, he passed Adelaide’s house. For no reason at all, he decided to take a look inside.  
  
The dust lay thick on the floor and limp ends of yarn hung from the ceiling like fingers, reaching down to grab him from above. The floorboards creaked as he walked across the floor and the skeins of yarn were dusty and faded with age. The windows were cracked and broken, and he wondered what Beatrice would say if she saw the Yarn-Witch’s sewing kit, complete with cat- and horse-shaped scissors.  
  
Wirt left the dead witch’s house and continued on. Behind him, the strands of yarn twitched.  
  
It grew colder as he drew closer to Auntie Whispers’ house. Frost rimed the blades of grass and a bitter wind whipped his face. He drew his cloak about himself and walked on, hoping that, wherever they were, Greg and Beatrice were warm.  
  
By the time he reached Auntie Whispers’ house, night had fallen as well as the temperature. The welcoming glow of a fire lit his way through the woods and he hastened toward it, eager to be out of the cold.  
  
He rapped on the door and it opened almost immediately. “Hi, Lorna,” he rasped in a voice unused for a day.  
  
“Wirt,” she said, disbelievingly. “Just like Auntie said.” She opened the door further and gestured for him to come in. “We’ve been expecting you.”  
  
The warm fire was a blessing to his frozen hands. He held them as close to the flames as he dared as he asked, “What do you mean, expecting me?”  
  
“I may be old,” came a voice from the staircase, “but I still have ears.” Auntie Whispers made her slow way down the staircase and into the room, her voice as unnervingly low as he remembered. “And when the turtles tell me someone is in the Unknown that ought not to be there, I keep my eyes peeled.”  
  
“Oh,” Wirt said politely. He was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to stop by in the first place. Auntie Whispers had always creeped him out a bit and Lorna. . . well, seeing Lorna again was just awkward.  
  
Auntie Whispers sat down sat down in front of the fire with a sigh and motioned for Wirt to do the same. He complied, sitting cross-legged on the well-swept floor. Lorna stood behind her aunt, keeping her eyes on Wirt.  
  
“I know what it is you do, boy.” Her voice is gravelly, but true. “‘Tis a foolhardy task, awakening the Beast, but a necessary one.” He wasn’t about to ask how she knew that. He really didn’t want to know.  
  
“Can– can you help?” he dared to ask. The further he walked alone, the more Beatrice’s words rang true. He was helpless. And right now, a bit of help– from anyone– would be great.  
  
She regarded him with a critical eye. “For the sake of the Unknown,” she rasped, “I will. But were it not for that, I would leave you to freeze in the snow, for I am not fond of mortals and their petty troubles.” She turned to Lorna. “If you would fetch the match, dear.”  
  
Lorna nodded and crossed the room to open another door he had failed to notice. Presumably, it lead to the basement. As the sounds of her footsteps faded down the stairs, Auntie Whispers and Wirt regarded each other grimly.  
  
“You have changed, Pilgrim,” she said baldly. “A burden rests heavy on you, and it is not only for your sake that you walk alone.”  
  
He shrugged awkwardly. “Do we all not carry our own torches? I have more things to lose, this time around, and I would fain bear this burden for the sake of those I love.” The archaic ways of the Unknown were beginning to rub off on him. Written poetry and spoken words had begun to blur their lines.  
  
“I hope, for your sake, you are able to bear it.”  
  
They sat in silence until Lorna returned, bearing in one pale hand a small match. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “Be careful with it– it is the only one we have.” Her hands were cold, despite the warmth of the fire.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, looking at it. It was. . . well, it was a match, and it looked like one too. But it lay strangely heavy in his hand, as if some old, eldritch power had been forced into it, inch by struggling inch.  
  
“What do I do with it?” he asked.  
  
It was Lorna who answered, this time. “If you find the lantern– when you find the lantern,” she corrected herself, hands fiddling with something in her lap, “you must strike the match and place it inside the lantern for it to catch fire. You shall see an Edelwood begin to grow about the flame, and from that tree shall spring the Beast.” On closer inspection, he saw that she was playing cats-cradle with a skein of yarn. Without knowing why, he shivered.  
  
“How do you know this?” Wirt asked, looking from Lorna to Auntie Whispers. “Has this happened before?”  
  
The old woman shook her head. “No. The Beast has never been slain before. This match was given to my sister, Adelaide, by the Beast himself, in exchange for her service in ensnaring children. He did not tell her how to use it, but from old tales and nightmares we have made our assumptions.”  
  
“Thank you,” he said again, and tucked it away inside his coat.  
  
“You’ll want to be moving on, then,” Auntie Whispers rasped. “The Edelwood trees are ever greedy, and you must make haste.”  
  
“Oh-okay,” Wirt stuttered. He stood up and Lorna mirrored him.  
  
“Shall I walk you to the woods?” she offered.  
  
“Um. . . sure,” he said, and she opened the door.  
  
Their feet crunched over the dry grass as the light of the fire faded behind them. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Lorna stopped. Wirt paused too, sensing that she wanted to say something.  
  
She kicked at a tuft of grass awkwardly. “Wirt,” she said. “Can you do me a favor and tell Beatrice to bring back my book when she’s done? She doesn’t exactly cover her tracks.” She smiled halfheartedly as she spoke of the other girl.  
  
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Wirt rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll tell her when I see her.”  
  
She smiled sadly. “You’ve changed, Wirt,” Lorna said softly.  
  
He quirked his mouth regretfully. “Haven’t we all.”  
  
She reached out and laid her hand on his chest, lightly, then turned away and hurried back to the cottage. He watched her leave, then turned around to face the silent trees. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” he quoted aloud to the waiting night. “But I have promises to keep; and miles to go before I sleep.”  
  
He looked toward the forest. Shadows seemed to twist and turn between the trees and he clutched the match tightly in his hand.  
  
“And miles to go before I sleep.”  
  
*  
  
Silence lay thick on the forest as Beatrice led Greg down the path. Every so often, they’d come upon an Edelwood tree and she would take extra care to skirt around that area. She looked up, checking the position of the moon. It was nearly set. They had walked almost the entire night.  
  
She took a quick look over her shoulder to check on Greg. The little boy looked tired, worn out from all of the turmoil, both emotional and physical, of the past few days. She made a decision. “Okay, let’s stop here for a bit.”  
  
Greg didn’t complain, plopping down on the ground and curling up on his side. Soon, the quiet sound of his breathing filled the air and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She wished she could fall asleep as quickly as that.  
  
Beatrice sat down next to Greg and leaned against a tree. She rested her head against the reassuringly rough bark of the tree and looked up at the sky. She sincerely hoped she was doing the right thing. She was planning on taking Greg home to her mother and going back to find Wirt, but. . . She couldn’t just leave Greg, and she had a feeling that, after seeing Wirt leave them, Greg would be loath to let her go anywhere without him.  
  
Beatrice closed her eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, not to think of Wirt and how he looked as he watched them leave, and how her guilt at abandoning him once again ate away at the pit of her stomach.  
  
Sleep was a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: It's one of my personal headcanons that Lorna becomes the new Yarn-Witch. We didn't see much of her in the original series, so it was fun to think of what she might become. The poem Wirt quotes is one penned by Robert Frost, called "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

He walked.

A few minutes/hours/days ago (time was beginning to blur) he had begged a ride from a fish holding, unnervingly, a fishing pole and sitting in a boat. As his silent benefactor had ferried him across the sluggish river, he had thought about psychopomps, and Charon, and the river running between life and death.

Wirt wondered if he was dead now, over the garden wall. He decided not to think about that for the time being.

The fish had dropped him off on the opposite back and he had begun walking, trying to find the place where he and Greg had washed up against; the place where the Beast had lured his brother away. He shuddered. More and more now, he was beginning to doubt that he was doing the right thing at all. What right did he have to raise this eldritch horror? Maybe it was best he go home. Turn back. Take his brother and leave.

Still, he walked doggedly on, pulled closer and closer to the forsaken clearing by the rusting, darkened lamp in the snow.

As he drew further and further away from the autumn lands, the wind howled ever colder through the trees and snowflakes danced crazily about the forest. Occasionally, he stumbled and fell, nearly plunging face first into drifts of snow and stopping himself just in time.

Finally, he entered the forest proper. There the snow lay on the ground in drifts, unmarred by footprints or marks. The trees offered some shelter from the wind, and the going was faster here. He picked up the pace, pulling his cloak closer about himself and hurrying through the trees.

The pull of the lantern intensified here, seeming to drag him forcibly to where it lay. Wirt felt as if he were to try to turn aside or walk away, he would be pulled inexorably back on the trail.

He trudged past the frozen-over lake, taking care to skirt the center of the ice where he had nearly drowned. He kept walking, knowing in the pit of his stomach that he was close.

Finally, the trees parted before him and he stood in the clearing. A squat, broken stump of Edelwood sat in the center of the opening, a reminder of the Forest's hunger. He fell to his knees and scrabbled through the snow, fingers slowly going numb.

He couldn't find anything. The white noise of sheer and utter panic buzzed dully in his head as he searched through the snow. His hands were clumsy with cold. What if it was gone? What if it was lost? What if what if what if. . .

There. His fingers found a hard, cold object hidden under the layers of snow and he exhaled, relieved. He pulled the lantern out of the snow and brushed it off.

Wirt sat the empty lantern on the surface of the snow and looked at it. With the snow cleaned off of it, the lantern looked rusted and dark, empty and forlorn. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the match. Muttering a prayer under his breath to whatever gods watched over these woods, he struck the match on the side of the lamp and placed it inside the cavity.

The lantern flared to life with a clear, pure light, casting the clearing in a chiaroscuro of shadow and light. The light hurt his eyes and he sat down, shielding his eyes with his arm.

Wirt felt as if he could breath again, like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He slumped down, suddenly exhausted, and allowed himself to hope that things would go back to normal.

Then, in a terrible, sickening twist of fate, the flame flickered and went out.

"No." The word was choked out of him, strangled. "No, no, no, no, no. . ." He crawled forward on his hands and knees and lifted up the lantern, staring at it with panicked eyes.

The flame was out. The match didn't work. What did he do now?

A soul-crushing fog of hopelessness crashed down on him with all of the dull force of a sledgehammer. He lay down in the snow, staring at the dark lantern. This was all his fault. He choked back a desperate sob. The Unknown was as good as dead. Everyone, turned into Edelwood trees. Him, Greg, Beatrice. . .

Numb, he felt a slow, creeping pain as tendrils Edelwood began to creep across his skin. And as he gave himself up to the Forest, slowly, softly, the lantern began to glow.

*

A week passed, then another, and Greg had given up all hope.

Beatrice had made too many trips to count, looking for his brother, but she had returned every time with no news (she had seen an Edelwood tree in the clearing, tall and thin, but this she did not tell him).

Beatrice's family was kind and welcoming, but Greg spent most of his days with his frog, sitting at the edge of the yard and watching. Waiting for them to move.

One day more than two weeks after they had last seen Wirt, Greg saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes in the shadows between the trees. He stood up, afraid.

A small black-furred, yellow-eyed cat emerged from the trees and looked over its shoulder, as if it were waiting for someone (or something) to catch up.

An eerie light began to shine through the misty trees and Greg's heartbeat began to pick up. A tall, lean figure came out of the trees bearing a lantern, and only by the hat on his head did Greg know him.

That day was the first known occasion in which a child had run voluntarily toward the Beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me.


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue

I see you there, eyes curious and wondering. Come closer. Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there were two brothers. They traveled to a mysterious place, called the Unknown, where the spirits of those who have gone before walked again, under the watchful eyes of the Celestial Queen and the Beast, and guided by those who watched over the wayfarers. These brothers, however, were not dead. Or that is, not yet.

But, guided by a kind if abrasive bluebird, they managed to defeat the looming Beast and return to their normal, ordinary lives, over the garden wall.

However, three years later they were summoned back to the Unknown by the very same bluebird who helped them, this time around in her rightful form as a human girl. This time, though, it was for a very different reason. The Unknown was dying, and all who lived in it would be devoured by the eternal Forest, unless the Beast was resurrected, to reign over the Forest once more. Through many obstacles, the lantern was relit and the Beast returned.

All's well that ends well, no?

Not quite.

The eldest brother became the Beast, grew his antlers, and gave up his soul to flame on in the lamp.

His name is Wirt, and this is what happened to him.

*

He floated, alone, in darkness.

Part of him, he knew, was being grown over by Edelwood, but his mind was here. Wherever 'here' was.

He thought of Greg. He hoped that he was safe, wherever he was. He thought of his mom and stepfather. He hoped they wouldn't grieve for them too much. He felt guilty, thinking about his other body drowning in a river beside a cemetery, but the velvet darkness swallowed his emotions.

He thought of Beatrice. Beatrice. Bluebird, girl, friend. He thought of how she hugged him, and the determined glint in her eyes when she told him she'd be coming back. There was something else there, but he didn't know what.

He had failed her. He had failed everyone.

In another detached part of his mind, he knew he must feel the ache of fingers elongating into branches and the itching sting as bark grew over his skin, but it was muted. If this was what it was like to turn into an Edelwood tree, it wasn't terrible, he supposed. He felt nothing. Nothing at all.

Suddenly, he was thrust back into his body proper and if he could've screamed, he would have. He felt an enormous pain at his temples, an aching presence hammering at his skull from the inside. His eyes felt unbearably itchy, like there were ants burrowing into his eye sockets. He tried to move, but his limbs were not longer his to control.

His mind skipped again, and he was reaching down into the earth with feet of roots. He tasted the slow, sweet contentment of Pottsfield, the odd bitterness that lingered at the Yarn-Witch's cottage, and the salty-fresh earth of Lichport. He stretched his arms to the sky and millions of branches covered the stars, hiding them, dimming them, obscuring them.

(In the sky, a queen sensed a new disturbance in the web of the Unknown and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, things were going back to the way they should be.)

Another skip. He was standing at the banks of the river outside the Eternal Garden Cemetery. All that rose to the surface was a few bubbles and a sodden red hat. He bowed his head and turned away. . .

And he opened his eyes. All he saw was darkness, and a barely-there glow emanating, oddly, from him. He reached out with long fingers, pushed against something hard. With a strength he didn't know he had, he kicked down the Edelwood tree covering him and broke into the light.

The light. It blinded him and he shielded his eyes from the glare with an arm. When his eyes adjusted, he looked around, disoriented. He was. . . taller? He looked down at himself and almost passed out.

He was a good four or five inches taller, and his clothes had turned a pitch-dark, light-eating black. He held up his hands to his face and his veins ran oil-dark against the paleness of his skin. There were weights on the sides of his head, and he turned with a dull sort of dread to the lantern.

It burned brightly, and in the new-polished surface he saw the reflection of two glowing eyes.

He fell to his knees and screamed, his voice tearing through the woods like the desolate, betrayed cry of the wolf. He was the Beast. He was the Beast.

He who kills the Beast becomes the Beast.

What now?

In a kind of numb days he picked up his soul and cradled it carefully against his felt good there. Almost comfortable (and that was what scared him).

He turned around, and there was a black cat watching him with grave amber eyes. "Enoch," he whispered. His voice was hollow, somehow.

The cat nodded and twitched its tail, beckoning him to follow it.

Having no other options, he stood up and left that desolate clearing, his soul flickering and swinging by his side.

His new legs were long, and the going was fast. As he passed through the Forest, the trees and branches drew aside for him, leaving a clear path. Vines and branches gently stroked the sides of his face, leaving dark lines of oil under his eyes.

(Beside him, in the shadows, black turtles paused as he strode by, watching their new master with incurious eyes.)

As he walked, he reached up a curious hand to the side of his head. At his temple was a small protrusion, hard and smooth like horn. In disbelief, he traced the small antler to its curving end, about a hand's width away from the side of his head. While nowhere as near as impressive as the old Beast's antlers, his horns were enough to make him shudder in revulsion.

"Oh my god," he whispered hoarsely (he was completely and utterly disgusted by the eerie, hollow note in his voice). "I'm a monster." He began to shake.

The cat came back and wound about his ankles, purring. The warm, kind feeling of soft fur against his calves stilled his shaking hands and brought him back to himself. He stooped down gratefully and stroked the cat's head. It purred encouragingly and they walked on.

Later, he would say that he had no idea where the cat was leading him, or how long they traveled through the woods. He lied. He knew exactly where they were going, as if the slow reappearance of autumn leaves on the bare winter branches wasn't a dead giveaway.

As they made their way back to the O'Sialia household, the weather began to warm. Cutting through the forest cut off an amazingly large distance from their journey, and he could sense the placid town of Pottsfield sooner than he thought.

It was different, moving through the Unknown as a part of it rather than a mere traveller. He could taste people and places as they passed, could feel their pain or contentment or despair on his tongue.

This new sixth sense took a bit of getting used to. It took him a bit by surprise the first time it happened. As they passed by Pottsfield, he took a deep breath and it hit him– a slow, dark, almost molasses-like taste at the back of his throat. Pottsfield tasted like the last dregs of fall, laced with the lazy sweetness of contentment and a hint of bitter relief. He found that he could almost hone in on a single person's scent– the cat before him tasted of a gingery caution and a slight, sugary curiosity. He wondered what Enoch was thinking, leading a Beast and his soul back home.

They walked for exactly four days and four nights. During that time he neither grew tired or hungry. It seemed that the taste of various feelings and emotions fed the lamp just as well as oil.

On the dawn of the fifth day, he saw a clearing ahead with a house in it, and outside that house, a boy. The cat led him out of the woods and looked back at him with its glinting amber eyes. "Welcome," said the cat, and vanished back into the Forest.

He looked up to see the child running toward him. "Greg," he said aloud, remembering the name from another life.

"Wirt!" His little brother (yes, that was who the child was) stopped within arm's reach of him as he took in how changed his brother had become. The expression on his face changed from joy to a tart, piquant fear. "W-Wirt?"

Wirt sank to his knees and hugged his little brother to his chest, dry, racking sobs shaking his tall frame. He had never wanted this. But this was what he had.

His little brother hesitated before hugging him back just as tightly. "Wirt," he said softly. "Welcome back, brother o' mine."

*

And so our tale ends, years after it first began. The Forest is back to its original state, and the Beast reborn and loved, despite the shadow of his predecessor. The two brothers were taken into the bluebird's nest, and the people of the Unknown had a Beast to fear once more. All's well that ends well, and yet, over the garden wall. . .

A family mourns the loss of their children, stolen by the lake they thought they had once escaped. Two more gravestones join the crumbling ranks of the Eternal Garden Cemetery, despite the fact that no bodies were found. After a while, the names of the two boys fade from the town's memory and, of course, the community's mysterious forgetfulness had nothing to do with the visit of a tall lean stranger with oddly luminescent eyes. Perhaps it is for the best. The brothers are in a better place now.

The brothers, you ask? Ah, they had many more adventures with that bluebird of theirs, after the elder set the Unknown to right again. He came to terms with his role in the world eventually, and made the most of it. He and his friends explored the Unknown together, traveling far and wide and living as best as they could while dead. But that is a tale for another day.

Here ends the last tale of the Tome of the Unknown, where long-forgotten stories are here, waiting for you to crack open their dusty pages. Who knows? Maybe you too can travel to the Unknown, where, dancing in the golden light of memories, are the loveliest lies of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end! I hope you all enjoyed it, because as of right now, "Long-Forgotten Stories" is officially concluded. I know everyone says this, but seriously: All of your reviews, messages, and favorites really do make my day, and I appreciate everyone who took the time to read all of this. Special thanks to my sister Pauline, for beta-reading this fic-- I wouldn't have been motivated enough to finish this fic without your nagging.  
> And now for some shameless self-advertising: I am on Tumblr under the URL of a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com, and if you ever feel the urge for fandom, humor, and occasional ramblings, you might want to check me out.  
> There is an OTGW oneshot planned in the near future, and I am currently working on a somewhat-sequel for this fic. Just letting you know.  
> Thank you all again. I love you all so much.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the prologue. More to come! Please leave a kudos or comment, or feel free to shoot me an ask at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com. Thank you!


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